


the taste of your lips is my idea of luxury

by Lysippe



Series: The Worst Witch 2018 Winter Fluff-A-Thon [14]
Category: The Worst Witch (TV 2017), The Worst Witch - All Media Types
Genre: F/F, day 14: ugly holiday sweaters, here have some silly fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-15
Updated: 2018-12-15
Packaged: 2019-09-19 12:46:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,055
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17001927
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lysippe/pseuds/Lysippe
Summary: “What are you wearing?”Pippa looks down at her jumper, magenta wool with a brilliant green Christmas tree plastered over the front and baubles that have been spelled to twinkle in the light. It is, she must admit, quite hideous. (It was a gift from a rather enthusiastic first-year some years back, though who had been excited to have a headmistress who shared his love of the color pink.) But it is also quite warm, and the flight over from Pentangle’s is long, and the wind biting. “It’s a Christmas jumper, Hiccup,” Pippa says sweetly, patiently, as though this were not an abundantly obvious fact, and she does her very best to keep all hints of teasing out of her voice, however fond. “I don’t know if you’re aware, but the flight over was quite chilly, and I felt it would behoove me to dress for the weather.”





	the taste of your lips is my idea of luxury

**Author's Note:**

> I'm a day late in posting, which is honestly pretty sad since I had this one pre-written and just didn't grab my computer to bother posting it yesterday, which was my day off, but you know. Have one of the few, truly fluffy pieces I wrote for this challenge as penance, I guess.

_ “What _ are you wearing?”

The words are out of Hecate’s mouth before Pippa has even crossed the threshold into her rooms, horrified disdain dripping from every word. And standing in the doorway, cloak freshly vanished and nose still pink from the cold, Pippa only just manages to stifle the laughter she feels bubbling up inside of her, pressing against her chest, demanding release.

Hecate’s distaste for Pippa’s fashion sense has been a cornerstone of their relationship for as long as Pippa can remember, from the day in their third year where Pippa had first discovered pink lip gloss (shimmering, entirely too much gloss, and quite ostentatious even by her standards, Pippa remembers), to the first time their paths crossed after Pippa had opened her school (the open disgust on Hecate’s face at her fuschia-colored dress robes - bought especially for the awards banquet they had both been roped into attending - had, if anything, lent an odd sort of comfort to the occasion).

But it has, for the most part, been harmless, if wholly judgmental nonetheless.

Pippa looks down at her jumper, magenta wool with a brilliant green Christmas tree plastered over the front and baubles that have been spelled to twinkle in the light. It is, she must admit, quite hideous. (It was a gift from a rather enthusiastic first-year some years back, though who had been excited to have a headmistress who shared his love of the color pink.) But it is also quite warm, and the flight over from Pentangle’s is long, and the wind biting. “It’s a Christmas jumper, Hiccup,” Pippa says sweetly, patiently, as though this were not an abundantly obvious fact, and she does her very best to keep all hints of teasing out of her voice, however fond. “I don’t know if you’re aware, but the flight over was quite chilly, and I felt it would behoove me to dress for the weather.”

Hecate’s face contorts into a sort of pained grimace, and Pippa bites back a smile as she, at last, moves aside, granting Pippa access to her rooms. As she banishes her cloak and broomstick to hang in Hecate’s wardrobe, she can almost  _ see  _ the words fighting to get past Hecate’s jaw, firmly clamped shut as though she can think of no other way to restrain herself. And Pippa knows, already, all the things she wants to say. The  _ it’s hideous _ , and  _ where on  _ earth  _ did you even procure such a thing _ , or, simply,  _ but why _ . But Hecate, to her credit, says none of those things. Instead, she forced out a strained, “I see that.”

Pippa keeps her pleasant, placid smile pasted firmly in place, knowing it will drive Hecate quite mad. Knowing that she will, eventually, give in to the temptation to ask, to demand explanation or justification. That her sensibilities will be so thoroughly offended --

“But what on earth possessed you to  _ wear  _ it?”

And there it is.

“I told you already, Hiccup,” Pippa says, schooling her expression, and her tone, into one of careful neutrality, doing her utmost to ensure Hecate does not realize that she is teasing. “It’s cold out. And quite windy. And I wanted to stay warm.”

“Pippa,” Hecate says seriously, “I have seen the inside of your closet, and I know you have a great deal of other, less monstrous jumpers from which to choose. And I am merely asking what could  _ possibly  _ have prompted you to select that one.”

“Do you not like it?” At this point, Pippa knows the game is up, that Hecate is fully aware that Pippa is having a bit of fun at her expense. But Hecate seems to be taking it in stride as much as Hecate takes anything in stride. “It was a gift from a student.”

“I find that oddly reassuring,” Hecate says drily. 

Pippa cannot hold back her smile any longer can no longer keep the teasing lilt out of her voice. She nudges an elbow into Hecate’s side playfully, allows herself to be led to the dark leather loveseat by Hecate’s woefully unlit fireplace. “You mean because at least that means I didn’t pick it out myself? Because as patently offensive as my fashion sense is to every single one of your witching sensibilities, at least you don’t have to say that you have somehow found yourself romantically entangled with the sort of woman who finds green and magenta to be a fetching color combination?”

Hecate gives her the sort of withering look that Pippa imagines has reduced a great many witches and wizards to wordless stammering over the years. But there is no bite behind it, and her eyes are twinkling, her stony tone tainted by mirth that gives her away entirely to Pippa, who is all too familiar with this game. “Pippa,” she says, her voice grave, “I do not know, in the interest of honesty, if I  _ could  _ be romantically entangled with such a woman.”

“Well, fortunately for you,” Pippa says warmly, giving Hecate’s arm an affectionate squeeze, “you are not. And the woman with whom you  _ are  _ entangled has no intention of letting you go again anytime soon, so I daresay you won’t have to worry about that particular line in the sand for a good long while.” Then, as an afterthought, she adds, a bit more mischievously, “And if you can find a way to warm me up, you won’t even have to worry about it now.”

Hecate frowns slightly. “You know you’re always welcome to light the fireplace, Pippa. You really needn’t ask permission.”

It is with one great, long-suffering sigh that Pippa loops an arm around to grasp at the back of Hecate’s head and pulls her in; kisses her, draws warmth, at long last, from soft lips on hers; from long fingers that grasp at her ribs, holding her tight; from quiet moans that may be hers or may not, and it doesn’t matter either way. 

And when she pulls away, Hecate’s curls are wild, and her pupils are dilated, and her cheeks are flushed, and it takes great control for Pippa to explain herself in words. 

“That,” she says, “is more along the lines of what I was thinking.”

And it is with palpable self-control that Hecate nods slowly, stands and gives Pippa a hand up, and says, “That could be arranged.”

**Author's Note:**

> Join me on Tumblr @ thebestdressedrebelinhistory


End file.
